


Spiral Insana

by ColorfulStabwound



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Death, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Kid Sherlock, M/M, Moriarty - Freeform, POV Jim Moriarty, POV Second Person, Sheriarty - Freeform, Suicide, The Final Problem, The Reichenbach Fall, dying, jimlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 21:17:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1956450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColorfulStabwound/pseuds/ColorfulStabwound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are so many things you still want to say to him, so many ways that you have yet to break him and violate him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spiral Insana

**Author's Note:**

> Me and Jim are constantly struggling over whether he is alive or dead. Today, death won the battle. :)

_Sometimes you allow yourself to wonder how you got to this point and why you are unable to stop yourself, no matter how loudly your insides scream at you that it is wrong. **Wrong.** That voice inside your head is usually so very spot on, but this time you tell yourself that you know better; that you can handle this on your own.  It would take a genius to see through the shroud that you cloak yourself in; words like ‘truth’ and ‘lies’ co-mingle here like they are desperate lovers craving the touch of the other. You have always taken extreme caution in your every move, and yet somehow you are transparent, at least to a particularly piercing gaze. _

_You tell yourself that this is all a game, that you can eat a bullet and walk away at any time you choose; what you don’t tell yourself is that there is a fine line between flying and falling, and even you don’t know which you orchestrate more efficiently. You have always been the one to lead the way; the illumination cast in the wake of your chaos is eternal, and yet you find yourself waxing poetic in a barely-lit circle. It’s funny, you think, to find yourself when you aren’t even looking; to realize that the very thing that you have set out to destroy is in turn, destroying you._

_You play the game better than anyone before; at least that is what you tell yourself when you think you are listening. What you don’t realize yet is that this was never **just** a game at all. This is supposition and compulsion and symbiosis; you live for it without even realizing it, and you like to think he does too. When you threaten to take his life, you mean it in a way that so wholly transcends the definition that your heart splinters from the sheer beauty of it all. His mind is a never-ending feast for your soul and over time it begins to frighten you precisely **how** much he has infected you._

_The time comes when you realize it is do or die, and a small part of you wishes that you both really did die that day, because you recognize the fatal connection and want to test the boundaries of it.  This statement summarizes you in a perfect little shell—You live for turning barriers to dust and poking on the invisible lines of clear conscience. You have been doing it for as long as you can remember and even now, you can’t shake the unmistakable and crippling need to poke at his barriers. He’s jumped through your hoops, and sorted your puzzles, and now he’s jumping over an edge that he shouldn’t be able to return from._

_Neither of you should._

_You have carefully orchestrated this particular game for that exact purpose. There is nothing left for you to extract from one another, a game can only keep you interested for so long before the players can foretell the outcome and alter the final solution. No, this is the way it has to be, and you know that he sees it to. All of those people that he pretends to care for, you know they are nothing; not really. Not like you. You hold a special place inside him, although you can’t help but wish for it all. When he looks at you, you can feel your core heating and melting and you never want that feeling to fade. You tell yourself that death will preserve everything, and you are prepared and willing to lay all of your cards out on the table._

_When he steps out onto that rooftop you are waiting for him, and although he doesn’t know everything, every detail of your plan just yet; he will soon enough. The words that pass between you are like old friends now; you’ve played and replayed this scene in your mind so many times that you know it by heart now. Round and round you go with him, this game that the two of you play has always been like foreplay and now here you both are, on the very precipice of the next step to your relationship. It excites you and exhilarates you in ways that only Sherlock is capable of; that old familiar tingle indeed. He calls you insane with such vulgarity that it is nearly sexual. He dangles your life and all that it stands for over the ledge meant for him, and your insides twist in a sick sort of delight. You wonder if he is finally able to admit that the final problem has never simply been about him or you. You look into his eyes and search for secrets and understanding but come away with very little. Perhaps Sherlock Holmes doesn’t truly understand anything at all._

_More words pass between you and before you know it there are tears in your eyes that cling to your lashes like they know what happens out there in the cruel and harsh reality. The cold stiffness of gunmetal rubs against your thigh and you are instantly brought back to the task at hand. Even though you wish you didn’t, you know the truth now. This time when you look into his eyes you see all of it—You see everything that he was too afraid to say before this very precise moment of truth. You wish things could be different and you wistfully think back on that time at his flat on Baker St. You will never forget the way he poured you tea like a lover might, or the way he watched you behind hungry eyes that ached for the unknown._

_You remind yourself that there will be plenty of time for dreaming when you are dead, which shouldn’t be long now. You gaze up at him, finding appreciation in the smallest things. The way his lips form around the world ‘hell’ claws at you and you think that this man, this walking contradiction of terms, could be the greatest sin you have ever had the pleasure of knowing._

_When your fingers close around the firearm you tell yourself that this is your moment of truth; no turning back now. You watch him as you reach up, taking the barrel into your mouth without hesitation. There is the briefest flicker of a moment when you wonder if later, when he slows down this moment to pick it apart if he will see the phallic beauty in your final act; if he will appreciate your attention to detail, even in death._

_There are so many things you still want to say to him, so many ways that you have yet to break him and violate him; it is unfortunate that your time together has run out so very quickly. The last thing you see before the darkness swallows you are those eyes, the bluest ocean you ever swam in. When you are gone you know that you will have forever left your imprint upon his soul, and that he can never scrub it off. You will always remain a permanent fixture within his mind, the very center of it, if we’re being terribly and perfectly honest._

_Death is darkness and leaving him is agony but you tell yourself it’s for the best and you wait…Wait for that handshake._


End file.
